It Is Moot Whether Our Dreams Mean Anything at All

The clock struck 10:30 p.m. Desire was surrounded by his bags, standing alone in the dark alley. Some inscrutable force had dragged him to where he was now, in front of a building whose familiar-looking and serenity-radiating façade veneered its incandescent core. He poked his head through the door.

He gained access to the interior and then hauled himself up the staircase to where Life dwelt. He was all in a stew, a boiling one, showering sparks that were eager to weld together into lightning. Immediately after opening the door, they fell into each other’s arms. She swayed on her feet, and he allowed her to rock him to sleep so that he could fish for his dreams in her bosom and emblazon them on reality.

She had known he would return to her one day, for she had fed the meek side of his personality for years. She was positive that he was unable to resist her charms and thus was as happy as a clam. He pressed an ardent kiss on her lips, and after all the time she had spent pining for his return, she felt as if life had quite suddenly become appreciably more appealing.

The next morning, he found her leaning over the table on one elbow with her fingers resting interlaced on her belly. She gaped at him, her eyes glowing with cheerfulness. She could not suppress a smile after surveying his handsome face. Her elation at having him back with her welled up inside her and tears moistened her eyes. Feeling feisty, she opened up to him and babbled about her hopes and dreams of building a future with him. In her delusion, she spoke as if she were making her dreams come true by dint of vocalizing them. Little did she know they were actually about to be shattered. Hence she would be left teetering on the edge of depression.

He lapsed into silence, his answer dangling from his lips. He lit up a cigarette, puffed on it, gazed back at her, and let his eyes stray to the ceiling, where the smoke rings he had blown lost their definition. He didn’t know how to soften the blow that would give her a concussion from which he knew she would never recover.

Minutes later, he inched toward her and took a seat next to her. He then whispered in her ear that he loved her but that he could not marry her, because he was a complete fuck-up who would make a terrible husband. In the end, he would wind up driving her crazy.

An ominous silence ensued. He packed his bags and left again before the sun set out for a new day.

She felt as if a volcano had erupted inside her. She could feel the shards of her brittle pluck scratching the side of her skull right behind her forehead. She tried to figure out when her luck had turned on her, but the mute walls around her blithely ignored the questions she fired at them. She stuck her head out the window and her eyes scoured the street. But there was no one to be seen. She therefore retreated into silence and isolation. She had idolized him, had offered up her youth, her beauty, and her cherry to him. And he had jilted her without giving it a second thought. She let out a bellow of rage that thundered like a winter storm.

He turned his tear-filled eyes back to her window before taking off with a broken heart.

He departed on a fall morning. Withered leaves fell off the trees and were swept away, left to decay in silent corners. Shortly before embarking on his new journey, his soulmate had had a mental breakdown. Although their common history had been sown with innumerable smiles, not a single one ventured across their faces any longer. The night wore on like a weary sigh that tried to douse Desire’s fire. The cosmos seemed to have gotten ahold of Life’s sorrow and was sprinkling her tears all over him. As her misery swamped his mind, his gloom deepened and his marbles rolled away. His memories started to grow dim. He would make sure to remember that day though, because his heart had been ripped out of his chest. A grueling season impended and he felt sick of his life.